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Book Ea2lE^ 

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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



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FAMILIAR FACES 



By the Same Author 



misrepresentative men 
More Misrepresentative Men 
misrepresentative women 



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V 



FAMILIAR FACES 



BY 

HARRY GRAHAM 

Author of' Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes^'' '^ Misrepresentative 
Men,^^ '^ Misrepresentative Women^'^ etc, etc. 



Illustrated by Tom Hall 




New York 
DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
1907 



\ AUG 1 90/ ; 



/v7 



Copyright, 1907, by 
DUFFIELD & COMPANY 



Published August, igo'^ 




?^. 



^ 



CONTENTS 








PAGE 


The Cry of the Publisher . • . . .7 


The Cry of the Author 








• 9 


The Fumbler . 








. II 


The Baritone 










. 15 


The Actor Manager 










. 20 


The Gilded Youth 










• 25 


The Gourmet . 










. 29 


The Dentist . 










. 36 


The Man Who Knows . 










38 


The Faddist . . . 










• 44 


The Colonel . 










47 


The Waiter 










50 


The Policeman 










54 


The Music Hall Comedian . 








58 


The Conversational Reformer 








63 


King Leopold 








67 


"Bart's'' Club 








71 


The Reviewer 










74 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



The Man Who Knows it All 


. . Frontispiece 


The Baritone 


. Facing Page i6 


The Actor Manager . 


" 22 


The Gilded Youth 


" 28 


The Faddist . . . . 


- 44 


The Comedian . . . . 


a ^8 


King Leopold . , . . 


" 68 


The Reviewer . . . . 


- 74 



THE CRY OF THE PUBLISHER 

O my Author, do you hear the Autumn calling? 

Does its message fail to reach you in your den, 
Where the ink that once so sluggishly was crawling 

Courses swiftly through your stylographic pen? 
'Tis the season when the editor grows active. 

When the office-boy looks longingly to you. 
Won't you give him something novel and attractive 

To review? 

Never mind if you are frivolous or solemn, 
If you only can be striking and unique. 

The reviewers will concede you half a column 
In their literary journals, any week. 

And 'twill always be your publisher's ambition 
To provide for the demand that you create, 

And dispose of a gigantic first edition, 

While you wait. 

O my Author, can't you pull yourself together, 
Try to expiate the failures of the past. 

And just ask yourself dispassionately whether 
You can't give us something better than your last? 

If you really — if you truly — are a poet. 

As you fancy — pray forgive my being terse — 

Don't you think you might occasionally show it 

In your verse? 

7 



THE CRY OF THE AUTHaR 

O my Publisher, how dreadfully you bore me! 

Of your censure I am frankly growing tired. 
With your diatribes eternally before me, 

How on earth can I expect to feel inspired? 
You are orderly, no doubt, and systematic. 

In that office where recumbent you recline ; 
You would modify your methods in an attic 

Such as mine. 

If you lived a sort of hand-to-mouth existence 

(Where the mouth found less employment than the 
hand) ; 
If your rhymes would lend your humour no assistance, 

And your wit assumed a form that never scann'd; 
If you sat and waited vainly at your table 

While Calliope declined to give her cues, 
You would realise how very far from stable 

Was the Mews! 

You would find it quite impossible to labour 
With the patient perseverance of a drone. 

While some 'tactless but enthusiastic neighbour 
Played La Maxixe on a wheezy gramophone. 

While your peace was so disturbed by constant clatter. 
That at length you grew accustomed — nay, resigned, 

To the never-ending victory of Matter 

Over Mind. 



lO ^ Familiar Faces 

While you batten upon plovers' eggs and claret, 
In the shelter of some fashionable club, 

I am starving, very likely, in a garret, 

Off the street so incorrectly labelled Grub, 

Where the vintage smacks distinctly of the ink-butt, 
And the atmosphere is redolent of toil, 

And there's nothing for the journalist to drink but 

Midnight oil! 

It is useless to solicit inspiration 
When one isn't in the true poetic mood. 

When one contemplates the prospect of starvation. 
And one's little ones are clamouring for food. 

When one's tongue remains ingloriously tacit, 
One is forced with some reluctance to admit 

That, alas! (as Virgil said) Poeta nascit- 

'Ur, non fit! 

Then, my Publisher, be gentle with your poet; 

Do not treat him with the harshness he deserves. 
For, in fact, altho' you little seem to know it. 

You are gradually getting on his nerves. 
Kindly dam the foaming torrent of your curses. 

While I ask you, — yes, and pause for a reply, — 
Are you writing this immortal book of verses, 

Or am I? 



THE FUMBLER 

Gentle Reader, charge your tumbler 

With anaemic lemonade! 
Let us toast our fellow-fumbler, 

Who was surely born, not made. 
None of all our friends is ^^ dearer '* 

(Costs us more — to be jocose — ) ; 
No relation could be nearer. 

More intensely ^^ close "! 

Hear him indistinctly mumbling 

'^ Oh, I say, do let me pay! " 
Watch him in his pocket fumbling, 

In a dilatory way; 
Plumbing the unmeasured deeps there, 

With some muttered vague excuse. 
For the coinage that he keeps there, 
But will not produce. 

If he joins you in a hansom, 

You alone provide the fare; 
Not for all a monarch's ransom 

Would he pay his modest share. 
He may fumble with his collar, 
He may turn his pockets out, 
He can never find that dollar 

Which he spoke about! 
II 



12 Familiar Faces 

Cigarettes he sometimes offers, 
With a sort of old-world grace, 

But, when you accept them, proffers 
With surprise, an empty case. 

Your cigars, instead, he'll snatch, and, 
With the cunning of the fox. 

Ask you firmly for a match, and 

Pocket half your box! 



If with him a meal you share, too. 
You'll discover, when you've dined, 

That your friend has taken care to 
Leave his frugal purse behind. 

^^ We must sup together later," 

He remarks, with right good-will, 

^^ Pass the Heidsieck, please ; and, waiter. 

Bring my friend the bill ! " 



At some crowded railway station 
He comes running up to you, 

And exclaims with agitation, 

" Take my ticket, will you, too? '^ 

Though his pow'rs of conversation 
In the train require no spur, 

To this trifling obligation 

He will wo/ refer! 



The Fumbler 13 

When at Bridge you win his money, 

Do not think it odd or strange 
If he says, ^' It's very funny. 

But I find I've got no change! 
Do remind me what I owe you. 

When you see me in the street.'* 
Mr. Fumbler, if I know you. 

We shall never meet! 



Fumbler, so serenely fumbling 

In a pocket with thy thumb, 
Never by good fortune stumbling 

On the necessary sum. 
Cease to make polite pretences, 

Suited to thy niggard ends. 
Of dividing the expenses 

With confiding friends ! 



Here, we crown thee, fumbling brother, 
With the fumbler's well-earned wreath! 

Thou would'st rob thine aged mother 
Of her artificial teeth ! 

We at length are slowly learning 
That some friendships cost too dear. 

^^ Longest worms must have a turning," 
And our turn is near! 



14 Familiar Faces 

Henceforth, when a cab thou takest, 
Thou a lonely way must wend ; 

Henceforth, when for food thou achest, 
Thou must dine without a friend. 

Thine excuses thou shalt mumble 
Down some public telephone, 

And if thou perforce must fumble, 
Fumble all alone I 



II 

THE BARITONE 

In many a boudoir nowadays 
The baritone's decollete throat 

Produces weird unearthly lays, 
Like some dyspeptic goat 

Deprived but lately of her young 

(But not, alas! of either lung). 



His low-necked collar fails to show 
The contours of his manly chest, 

Since that has fallen far below 
His *' fancy evening vest." 

Here, too, in picturesque relief. 

Nestles his crimson handkerchief. 



Will no one tell me why he sings 
Such doleful melancholy lays, 

Of withered summers, ruined springs. 
Of happier bygone days. 

And kindred topics, more or less 

Designed to harass or depress? 
15 



1 6 Familiar Faces 

That ballad in his bloated hand 

Is of the old familiar blend: — 
A faded flow'r, a maiden, and 

A ^' brave kiss " at the end! 
(The kind of kiss that, for a bet, 
A man might give a Suffragette.) 



(THE baritone's BOUDOIR BALLAD) 

Eyes that looked down into mine, 
With a longing that seemed to say 

Is it too late, dear heart, to wait 
For the dawn of a brighter day? 

Is it too late to laugh at fate? 
See how the teardrops start! 

Can we not weather the tempest together, 
Dear Heart, Dear Heart? 



Lips that I pressed to my own. 

As I turned while the kiss was warm, — 
Turned with a groan, and then hastened alone 

Into the teeth of the Storm! 
Long, long ago! Still the winds blow! 

Far have we drifted apart! 
I live with Mother, and you with — another! 
Dear Heart, Dear Heart! 




Tfl^ ^^ir/To*. 



nc 



The Baritone 17 



At times some drinking-song inspires 

Our hero to a vocal burst, 
Until his audience, too, acquires 

The most prodigious thirst. 
And nobody would ever think 
That milk was his peculiar drink! 

What spacious days his song recalls, 
When each monastic brotherhood 

Could brew, within its private walls, 
A vintage just as good 

As that which restaurants purvey 

As " rare old Tawny Port " to-day! 



(THE baritone's DRINKING SONG) 

The Abbot he sits, as his rank befits, 

With a bottle at either knee, 
And he smacks his lips as he slowly sips 
At his beaker of Malvoisie. 
Sing Ho! Ho! Ho! 
Let the red wine flow! 
Let the sack flow fast and free! 
His heart it grows merry on negus and sherry, 
And never a care has he! 
Ho! Ho! 
^(Ora pro nobis!) 
Sing Ho! for the Malvoisie! 



1 8 Familiar Faces 

In cellar cool^ on a highbacked stool, 

The Friar he sits him down, 
With the door tight shut, and an unbroached butt 
Where the ale flows clear and brown. 
Sing Ha! Sing Hi! 
Till the cask runs dry. 
His spirits shall never fail! 
For no one is dryer than Francis the Friar, 
When getting '^ beyond the pail! ^^ 
Ho! Ho! 
(Benedicimus!) 
Sing Ho! for the nutbrown ale! 



The Monk sits there, in his cell so bare, 

And he lowers his tonsured head, 
As he lifts the lid of the tankard hid 
^Neath the straw of his trestle bed. 
Sing Ho! Sink Hey! 
From the break of day 
Till the vesper-bell rings clear. 
Of grave he makes merry and hastens to bury 
His cares in the butfry BIER! 
Ho! Ho! 
(Pax Omnibuscum!) 
Sing Ho! for the buttery beer! 



The Baritone 19 



Oh, find me some secure retreat, 
Some Paradise for stricken souls, 

Where amateurs no longer bleat 
Their feeble baracoles, 

From lungs that are so oddly placed 

Where other people keep their waist; 



Where public taste has quite outgrown 
The faculty for being bored 

By each anaemic baritone 

Who murders '' The Lost Chord," 

And singers, as a body, are 

Cursed with a permanent catarrh! 



Ill 

THE ACTOR MANAGER 

Long ago, our English actors 

Ranked with rogues and vagabonds ; 

They were jailed as malefactors, 

They were ducked in village ponds. 

In the stocks the beadle shut them, 
While the friends they chanced to meet 

Would invariably cut them 

In the street. 



With suspicion people eyed them, 
Ev'ry country-squire would feel 
That his fallow-deer supplied them 

With the makings of a meal. 
They annexed the parson's rabbits. 

Poached the pheasants of the peer, 
And had other little habits 

Just as queer! 
20 



The Actor Manager 21 

Even Will, the Bard of Avon, 

As a poacher stands confest. 
And altho\ of course, cleanshaven. 

Was as barefaced as the rest. 
He, a player by vocation. 

Practised, like his buckskin'd pals, 
Indiscriminate flirtation 

With the gals ! 



Now, the am'rous actor's cravings 
For romance are orthodox; 

Nowadays he puts his savings, 
Not his ankles, into " stocks.'' 

Nobody to-day is doubting 

That a halo round him clings; 

One can see his shoulders sprouting 

Into wings. 



Watch the mummer managerial, 

Centre of a rev' rent group ; 
Note with what an air imperial 

He controls his timid troupe. 
Deadheads scrape and bow before him. 

To his doors the public flocks ; 
Even duchesses implore him 

For a box. 



22 Familiar Faces 

Enemies, no doubt, will tell us 
(What we should not ever guess) 

That he is absurdly jealous 
Of subordinates' success. 

Minor mimes who score a hit or 
Threaten to advance too fast, 

Are advised to curb their wit or 

Leave the cast I 



Foes declare that, at rehearsal, 
Managers are free of speech, 

And unduly prone to curse all 
Those who come within their reach. 

With some tiny dams (or damlets) 
They exhort each " walking gent,'' 

Language that potential Hamlets 

Much resent. 



Do not autocrats, dictators. 
All who lead successful lives, 

Swear repeatedly at waiters. 
Curse consistently at wives? 

Shall the heads of the Profession, 
Histrionic argonauts. 

Be denied the frank expression 

Of their thoughts? 



Th^ Act^tr y^A^^^^^*- 



OJ " ' ■- " 




5 



The Actor Manager 23 

Will not we who so applaud them 

Execrate with righteous rage 
Player knaves who would defraud them 

Of their centre of the stage? 
Do we grudge these godlike creatures 

Picture-cards that advertise — 
Calcium lights that flood their features 

From the flies? 



No, for ev'ry leading actor 
Who produces problem plays, 

Is a most important factor 
In the world of modern days. 

Kings occasionally knight him, 
Titled ladies take him up ; 

Even millionaires invite him 

Out to sup. 



Proudly he advances, trailing 
Clouds of limelight from afar, 

(Diffidence is not the failing 
Of the true dramatic ^^ star "). 

What cares he for rank or fashion, 
Politics or place or pelf? 

He whose one prevailing passion 

Is himself? 



n 



24 Familiar Faces 

All the world's a stage, we know it; 

Managers, whose heads are twirled, 
Think (to paraphrase the poet) 

That the stage is all the world. 
Other men discuss the summer, 

Or the poor potato crop. 
Nothing can prevent the mummer 

Talking '' shop." 



With his Art as the objective i 

Of his intellectual pow'rs, 
He (as usual, introspective) 

Talks about himself for hours. 
While his friends, who never dream of 

Interrupting, stand agog. 
He decants a ceaseless stream of 

Monologue. 



He is great. He has become it 
By a long and arduous climb 

To the crest, the crown, the summit 
Of the Thespian tree — a lime! 

There he chatters like a starling. 

There, like Jove, he sometimes nods; 

But he still remains the^^ darling 

Of the gods! '' 



IV 

THE GILDED YOUTH 

A monocle he always wears, 

Safe screwed within his dexter eye; 
His mouth stands open wide, and snares 

The too intrusive fly. 
Were he to close his jaws, no doubt, 
The eyeglass would at once fall out. 



His choice of clothes is truly weird; 

His jacket, short, and negligee, 
Is slit behind, as tho' he feared 

A tail might sprout some day. 
One's eye must be inured to shocks 
To stand the tartan of his socks. 



The chessboard pattern of his check 

Betrays its owner's florid taste; 
A three-inch collar grips his neck, 

A cummerbund his waist; 
The trousers that his legs enshroud 
Speak for themselves, they are so loud. 

25 



26 ^^^r Familiar Faces 

His shirt, his sleeve-links and his stud, 

Are all of a cerulean hue. 
And advertise that Norman blood, — 
The bluest of the blue, — 
Which, as a brief inspection shows, 
Seems to have centred in his nose. 



His saffron tresses, oiled with care. 

Back from a vacant brow he scrapes ; 
From so compact a head of hair 
No filament escapes. 
(This surface-polish, friends complain, 
Does not descend into his brain.) 



What does he do? You well may ask. 

Nothing at all, to be exact! 
Yet he performs this tedious task 

With quite consummate tact. 
(No cause for wonder this, in truth. 
Since he has practised it from youth.) 



To some wide window-seat he goes, 
And gazes out with torpid eyes; 
Then yawns politely through his nose. 

Looks at his watch, and sighs ; 
Regards his boots with dumb regret. 
And lights another cigarette. 



The Gilded Youth 27 

Then glances through his morning's mail, 

And now, his daily labours done. 
Feels far too comatose and frail 

To give the dog a run; 
Besides, as he reflects with shame, 
He can't recall the creature's name! 



Safe in a front-row stall he sits. 

Where lyric comedy is played; 
And, after, to some local Ritz, 

Escorts a chorus-maid. 
The jeunesse doree of to-day 
Is called the jeunesse stage-doore! 



How slow the weary days must seem 

(That to his fellow^s fly so fast), 
To one who in a waking-dream 

Awaits the next repast! 
How tiresome and how long they feel. 
Those hours dividing meal from meal! 



For, like Othello, he must find 
His " occupation gone," poor soul. 
Who can but wander in his mind 

When he requires a stroll ; 
A mental sphere, one may surmise. 
Too cramped for healthy exercise. 



28 



Familiar Faces 



But since a poet has declared 

That ^^ nothing walks with aimless feet," 
To ask why such a type is spared 

To grace the public street, 
Would be of time a wilful waste. 
And in the very worst of taste. 




The Ci^<J<^<l Yo^rh 



V 

THE GOURMET 

{A Ballad of Reading Grill) 

He did not wear his swallow-tail, 

But a simple dinner-coat; 
For once his spirits seemed to fail, 

And his fund of anecdote. 
His brow was drawn and damp and pale, 

And a lump stood in his throat. 

I never saw a person stare, 
With looks so dour and blue, 

Upon the square of bill-of-fare 
We waiters call the '' M'noo,'' 

And at ev'ry dainty mentioned there, 
From entree to ragout. 

With head bent low, and cheeks aglow. 
He viewed the groaning board, 

For he wondered if the chef would show 
The treasures of his hoard. 

When a voice behind him whispered low, 
" Sherry or 'ock, my lord? " 
29 



30 Familiar Faces 

Gods! What a tumult rent the air, 

As, with a frightful oath, 
He seized the waiter by the hair 

And cursed him for his sloth; 
Then, grumbling like some stricken bear, 

Angrily answered '^ Both! " 



For each man drinks the thing he loves. 

As tonic, dram or drug; 
Some do it standing, in their gloves, 

Some seated, from a jug; 
The upper class from slim-stemmed glass. 

The masses from a mug. 



The wine was slow to bring him woe, 
But when the meal was through. 

His wild remorse at ev'ry course 
Each moment wilder grew. 

For he who thinks to mix his drinks 
Must mix his symptoms too. 



The Gourmet 31 

Did he regret that tough noisette, 

And the tougher tournedos, 
The oysters dry, and the game so high, 

And the souffle flat and low, 
Which the chef had planned with a heavy hand, 

And the waiters served so slow? 



Yet each approves the things he loves. 

From caviare to pork; 
Some guzzle cheese or new-grown peas, 

Like a cormorant or stork; 
The poor man's wife employs a knife, 

The rich man's mate a fork. 



Some gorge, forsooth, in early youth, 
Some wait till they are old; 

Some take their fare oflf earthenware. 
And some from polished gold. 

The gourmet gnaws in haste because 
The plates so soon grow cold. 



32 Familiar Faces 

Some eat too swiftly, some too long, 

In restaurant or grill; 
Some, when their weak insides go wrong, 

Try a postprandial pill. 
For each man eats his fav'rite meats, 

Yet each man is not ill. 



He does not sicken in his bed, 

Through a night of wild unrest. 
With a snow-white bandage round his head. 

And a poultice on his breast, 
'Neath the nightmare weight of the things he ate 

And omitted to digest. 



We know not whether meals be short. 

Or whether meals be long; 
All that we know of this resort 

Proves that there's something wrong. 
That the soup is weak and tastes of port. 

And the fish is far too strong. 



The Gourmet 33 

The bread they bake is quite opaque, 

The butter full of hair; 
Defunct sardines and flaccid ^' greens " 

Are all they give us there. 
Such cooking has been known to make 

A common person swear. 



And when misguided people feed, 

At eve or afternoon, 
Their harassed ears are never freed 

From fiddle and bassoon, 
Which sow dyspepsia's subtlest seed, 

With a most evil spoon. 



To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes, 
Is a pastime rare and grand ; 

But to eat of fish or fowl or fruits 
To a Blue Hungarian Band 

Is a thing that suits nor men nor brutes, 
As the world should understand. 



34 Familiar Faces 

Such music baffles human talk, 
And gags each genial guest; 

A grillroom orchestra can baulk 
AH efforts to digest, 

Till the chops will not lie still, but walk 
All night upon one's chest. 



Six times a table here he booked, 
Six times he sat and scanned 

The list of dishes, badly cooked 
By the chefs unskilful hand; 

And I never saw a man who looked 
So wistfully at the band. 



He did not swear or tear his hair, 

But ordered wine galore. 
As though it were some vintage rare 

From an old Falernian store; 
With open mouth he slaked his drowth, 

And loudly called for more. 



The Gourmet 35 



He was the type that waiters know, 
Who simply lives to feed, 

Who little cares what food we show 
If it be food indeed. 

Who, when his appetite is low, 
Falls back upon his greed. 



For each man eats his fav'rite meats, 

(Provided by his wife) ; 
Or cheese or chalk, or peas or pork, 

(For such, alas! is life!) 
The rich man eats them with a fork. 

The poor man with a knife. 



VI, 

THE DENTIST 

What a dangerous trade is the dentist's! 
With what perils he has to contend, 
As he plunges his paws 
In the gibbering jaws 
Of some trusting but terrified friend, 
With the risk that before he is ten minutes older 
His arms may be bitten off short at the shoulder! 

He is born in the West, is the dentist, 
And he speaks with a delicate twang. 
When polite as a prince, 
He requests you to ^' rinse,'' 
After gently removing a fang. 
('Tis to save wear-and-tear to the mouth, one supposes. 
That dentists consistently talk through their noses.) 

He is painfully shy, is the dentist; 

For he lives such a hand-to-mouth life. 

When the sex known as '' fair " 
Comes and sits in his chair, 
He will call for his sister or wife. 
For a lady-companion or female relation, — 
So strong is the instinct of self-preservation! 

36 



The Dentist 37 

He's a talkative man, is the dentist; 
Though his patients are loth to reply. 
With his fist in your mouth 
He may say North is South, 
And you cannot well give him the lie ; 
For it's hard to converse on such themes as the weather. 
With jawbone and tongue fastened firmly together! 



To a sensitive soul like the dentist 

You should always avoid talking ^^ shop." 
If he drops in to tea, 
You must certainly see 
That your wife doesn't ask him to ^^ stop! " 
He is facile princeps, perhaps, of his calling; 
But jokes about princip^ly forceps ARE galling! 



There are people who say of the dentist 
That he isn't a gentleman quite. 

Half the gents that we see 
Are no gentler than he. 
And but few are so sweetly polite; 
For of all the strange trades to which men are appren- 

tic'd ; 
The gentlest, I'm certain, is that of the dentist! 



VII 
THE MAN WHO KNOWS 

How few of us contrive to shine 

In ordinary conversation 
As brightly as this human mine 

Of universal information, 
Or give mankind the benefit 
Of such encyclopaedic wit. 



How few of us can lightly touch 
On any topic you may mention 

With so much savoir-faire^ or such 
Exasperating condescension ; 

Or take so lively a delight 

In setting other people right. 



Whatever you may do or dream, 

The Man Who Knows has dreamt or done it; 
If you propound some novel scheme, 

The Man Who Knows has long begun it; 
Should you evolve a repartee, 
'* I made that yesterday," says he. 

38 



The Man Who Knows 39 

With what a supercilious air 

He listens to your newest story, 
As tho' your latest legend were 

Some chestnut long of beard and hoary. 
*^ When I recount that yarn," he'll say, 
" I end it in a different way.'' 



With a superior smile he caps 

Your ev'ry statement with another, 

If you have lost your voice, perhaps. 
He knows a man who's lost his mother: 

If you've a cold, 'tis not so bad 

As one that once his uncle had. 



Should you describe some strange event 
That happened to a near relation, — 

Some fatal motor accident, 

Some droll or ticklish situation, — 

*^ In eighteen-eighty-eight," says he, 

^* The very same occurred to me." 



40 Familiar Faces 

Each man who dies to him supplies 
A peg on which to air his knowledge; 

*^ Poor So-and-So," he sadly sighs, 

^^ He shared a room with me at college. 

I knew his sister at Ostend. 

He was my father's dearest friend." 



If you relate some incident, 
A trifle scandalous or shady. 

An anecdote you've heard anent 
Some wealthy or distinguished lady, 

He stops you with a sudden sign : — 

^^ She is a relative of mine! " 



When on some simple point of fact 
You fancy him impaled securely. 

He either smiles with silent tact. 
Or else he shakes his head obscurely, 

Suggesting that he might disclose 

Portentous secrets, if he chose. 



The Man Who Knows 41 

But if you dare to doubt his word, 

At once that puts him on his metal ; 
*^ Your facts," says he, ^' are quite absurd! 

As for Mount Popocatepetl, — 
Of course it's not in Mexico ; 
IVe been there, and I ought to know! " 



Or "George, how you exaggerate! 

It isn't half-past seven, nearly! 
1 make it seven-twenty-eight; 

Your watch is out of order, clearly. 
Mine cannot possibly be slow; 
I set it half an hour ago." 



He knows a foreign health-resort 
Where tourists are quite inoffensive; 

He knows a brand of ancient port, 
Comparatively inexpensive; 

And he will tell you where to get 

The choicest Turkish cigarette. 



42 Familiar Faces 

He knows the best hotel to dine 
And take a most fastidious guest to; 

He knows a mine in Argentine 

In which you safely can invest, too; 

He knows the shop where you can buy 

The most recherche hat or tie. 



If you require a motor-car, 

He has a cousin who can tell you 

Of something second-hand but far 

Less costly than the trade would sell you ; 

And if you want a chauffeur, too, 

He knows the very man for you. 



There's nothing that he doesn't know, 
Except — a rather grave omission — 

How weary his relations grow 
Of such unceasing erudition, — 

How fervently his fellows long 

That just for once he should be wrong. 



The Man Who Knows 43 

O Man Who Knows, we humbly ask 

That thou shouldst cease such grateful labours — 

Suspend thy self-inflicted task 
Of lecturing thine erring neighbours; 

For in thy knowledge we detect 

No faintest sign of Intellect. 



VIII 
THE FADDIST 

Gentle Reader, is your bosom filled v/ith loathing 
At the mention of the '' Simple Life " brigade? 

Do you shudder at their Jaeger underclothing, 
Which is ^^ fearfully and wonderfully made"? 

Though in manner they resemble '^ poor relations," 
Or umbrellas which their owners have forgot, 

They contribute to the gaiety of nations, 

Do they not? 

They are harmless little people, tame and quiet. 
Who will feed out of a fellow-creature's hand, 

If he happens to provide them with a diet 
Of a temperance and vegetable brand. 

They can easily subsist — a thing to brag of — 
In the draughtiest of sanitary huts, 

On a ^' mute inglorious Stilson " and a bag of 

Monkey-nuts. 

Ev'ry faddist is, of course, an early riser; 

When he leaves his couch (at 6 a. m. perhaps) 
He will struggle with some patent '^ Exerciser," 

Until threatened with a physical collapse. 
He wears collars made of cellular materials. 

And sandals in the place of leather boots, 
And his victuals are composed of either cereals 

Or roots. 

44 





^^ ^ 



V^ y 



Tht r^uist 




The Faddist 45 

He believes in drinking quantities of water, 

Undiluted by the essence of the grape ; 
And he deprecates the universal slaughter 

Of dumb animals in any form or shape. 
So his breakfast- food (a patent, too, of course), is 

Made of oats which he monotonously chews, 
Mixed with chaff which any self-respecting horses 

Would refuse. 



He discovers fatal microbes that are hiding 
In the liquids that his fellow creatures drink; 

Fell bacilli that are stealthily residing 
In our carpets, in our kisses, in our ink! 

In his eagerness such parasites to smother. 
He will keep himself so sterilised and aired. 

That one fancies he would disinfect his mother. 

If he dared. 



In a vegetarian restaurant you'll find him, 
Where he feeds like any other anthropoid, 

Upon dishes which must certainly remind him 
Of the cocoanuts his ancestors enjoyed. 

As he masticates his monkeyfood, you wonder 
If his humour is as meagre as his fare. 

And you look to see his tail depending under- 

-Neath his chair. 



46 Familiar Faces 

To his friends he never wearies of explaining 
The exact amount of times they ought to chew, 

The advantages of '' totally abstaining," 

And the joys of walking barefoot in the dew; 

How that slumber must be summoned circumspectly, 
In an attitude conducive to repose, 

And that breathing should be carried on correctly 

Through the nose. ^ 

A pathetic little figure is my hero, 

With a sparse and wizened beard, and straggly hair, 
Upon which is perched a sort of a sombrero 

Such as operatic brigands love to wear. 
He may eat the nuts his prehistoric sires ate. 

He may flourish upon sawdust mixed with bran, 
But he looks more like a Nonconformist pirate 

Than a man ! 



IX 
THE COLONEL 



Observe him, in the best armchair, 

At ev'ry '' Service " Club reclining! 
How brightly through its close-cropped hair! 

His polished skull is shining! 
His form, inert and comatose, 
Suggests a stertorous repose. 



What strains are those that echo clear? 

What music on our ears is falling? 
Through his iEolian nose we hear 

The distant East a-calling. 
(A good example here is found 
Of slumber that is truly '^ sound.") 



He dreams of India's coral strand. 

Where, camping by the Jimjam River, 
He sacrificed his figure and 

The best part of his liver, 
And, in some fever-stricken hole. 
Mislaid his pow'rs of self-control. 

47 



48 Familiar Faces 

Blow lightly on his head, and note 

Its surface change from chrome to hectic; 
Examine that pneumatic throat, 
That visage apoplectic. 
His colour-scheme is of the type 
That plums affect when over-ripe. 

With rising gorge he stands erect, 
Awakened by your indiscretion. 
Becoming slowly Dunlop-necked — 

(To coin a new expression) ; 
Where stud and collar form a juncture, 
You contemplate immediate puncture. 

His head like some inverted cup, 

Ascends, a Phoenix, from its ashes ; 
His eyebrows rise and beckon up 

His ^^ porterhouse " moustaches;* 
And you acknowledge, as you flinch. 
That he's a Colonel — ev'ry inch! 

The voice that once in strident tones 

Across the barrack-square could carry, 
Reverberates and megaphones 

A rich vocabulary. 
(His ^^ rude forefathers," you'll agree, 
Were never half so rude as he.) 

*Cf. " mutton-chop '' whiskers. 



The Colonel 49 

As blatantly he catalogues 

The grievances from which he suffers: — 
"The Service going to the dogs! " 

^^ The men, sir, all damduffersl " 
In so invetVate a complainer 
You recognise the '^ old campaigner." 

His raven locks (just two or three) 

Recall their retrospective splendour; 
One of the brave Old Guard is he, 

That dyes but won't surrender; 
With fits of petulance afflicted, 
When questioned, crossed, or contradicted. 

But as, alas! from poor-man's gout, 

Combined with chronic indigestion, 
The breed is quickly dying out — 

(The fact admits no question) — 
I'll give you, if advice you're taking, 
A recipe for Colonel-making. 

Select some subaltern whose tone 

Is bluff and anything but ^^ souUy ; '' 
Transplant him to a torrid zone; 

There leave him stewing slowly; 
Remove his liver and his hair^ 
Then serve up hot in an armchair. 



X 

THE WAITER 

^^ He also serves who only stands and waits! '^ 
My hero does all three, and even more. 

Bearing a dozen food-congested plates, 
With silent tread (altho' his feet are sore), 
He swiftly skates across the parquet floor. 

None can afford completely to ignore him. 

Because, of course, he ^^ carries all before him! " 

Endowed with some of Cinquevalli's charm. 
He poises plate on plate, and never swerves; 

Two in each hand, three more up either arm, — 
A feat of balancing which tries the nerves 
Of the least timid customer he serves. 

So firm his carriage, and his gait so stable, 

He is the Blondin of the dinner-table. 

Rising abruptly at the break of day 

(A custom more might copy, I confess), 

The waiter hastens, with the least delay. 
To don that unbecoming evening-dress 
Which etiquette compels him to possess. 

('Tis too the conjurer's accustomed habit 

Whence he evolves a goldfish or a rabbit.) 

50 



The Waiter 5 1 

Each calling its especial trademark bears. 

The anarchist parades a red cravat; 
The eminent physician always wears 

A stethoscope concealed within his hat; 

A diamond stud proclaims the plutocrat; 
The rural dean displays a sable gaiter, 
And evening dress distinguishes the waiter. 



Time was when he was elderly and staid, 
With long sidewhiskers and an old-world air. 

How gently, with what rev'rent hands, he laid 
A bottle of some vintage rich and rare 
Within a pail of ice beneath your chair, 

Like some proud steward in a hall baronial 

Performing an important ceremonial. 



How cultured his well-modulated voice, 
His manner how distingue and discreet, 

As he directed your capricious choice 
To what 'twere best and pleasantest to eat, 
Or warmly recommended the Lafitte. 

A perfect pattern of the genus homo, 

More like a bishop than a major-domo. 



i 
52 Familiar Faces \ 

He kept as grave as the proverbial tomb 
When in some haven '^ hush'd and safe apart," 

You sought the shelter of a private room, 
To entertain the lady of your heart 
At a recherche dinner a la carte. 

(The consequences would, he knew, be shocking 

Were he perchance to enter without knocking.) 



Now he is haggard, pale and highly-strung. 
The alien product of some Southern sun. 

Who speaks an unintelligible tongue 
And serves impatient patrons at a run. 
Snatching away their plates before they've done. 

Brisk as a bee, and restless as the Ocean, 

He solves the problem of perpetual motion. 



You would not look to him for good advice; 

To him your choice you never would resign. 
He gauges from the point of view of price 

The rival worth of each respective wine; 

His tastes, indeed, are frankly Philistine, 
And with a mien indifferent or placid. 
He serves your claret cold and corked and acid. 



The Waiter 53 

His is a tragic fate, a dreary lot. 
Think sometimes of his troubles, I entreat. 

Who in a crowded restaurant and hot 

Walks to and fro on tired and tender feet. 
Watching his hungry fellow-creatures eat! 

What form of earthly hardship could be greater 

Than that which daily overwhelms the waiter? 



XI 

THE POLICEMAN 

My hero may be daily seen 

In ev'ry crowded London street; 
Longsuff'ring, stoical, serene, 

With huge pontoonlike feet. 
His boots so stout, so squat, so square, 
A motor-car might shelter there. 

The traffic's cataract he dams. 

With hands that half obscure the sun, 
Like monstrous, vast Virginian hams. 

A trifle underdone; 
The while the matron and the maid 
Pass safely by beneath their shade. 

His courtesy is quite unique. 

His tact and patience have no end; 
He helps the helpless and the weak. 
He is the children's friend; 
And nobody can feel alarm 
Who clings to his paternal arm. 

54 



The Policeman 55 



When foreign tourists go astray 
In any tangled thoroughfare, 
Or spinster ladies lose their way, — 

The constable is there. 
With smile avuncular and bland, 
He leads them gently by the hand. 



He stalks on duty through the night, 

A bull's-eye lantern at his belt; 
His muffled steps are noiseless quite, 

His soles unheard — tho' felt! 
And burglars, when a crib they crack. 
Are forced to do it from the back. 



In far New York the ^^ man in blue " 

Is Irish by direct descent. 
His bludgeon is intended to 
Inflict a nasty dent; 
And if you ask him for advice, 
He knocks you senseless in a trice. 



56 Familiar Faces 

In Paris he is fierce and small, 

But tho' he twirls his waxed moustache, 
The natives heed him not at all. 

No more does the apache. 
And cabmen, when he lifts his palm. 
Drive over him without a qualm. 



The German minion of the law 

Is stern, inflexible, austere. 
His presence fills his friends with awe. 

The foreigner with fear. 
Your doom is sealed if he should pass 
And find you walking on the grassl 



But no policeman can compare 

With London's own particular pet; 
A martyr he who stands foursquare 

To ev'ry Suffragette, 
And when that lady kicks his shins 
Or bites his ankles, merely grins. 



The Policeman 57 

He may not be as bright, forsooth, 

As Dr. Watson's famous foil, — 
Sherlock, that keen unerring sleuth, 

Immortalised by Doyle, 
And Patti who, where'er she roams. 
Asserts ^^ There's no Police like Holmes! " 



But though his movements, staid and slow. 

Provide the vulgar with a jest. 
How true the heart that beats below 

That whistle at his breast! 
How perfect an example he 
Of what a constable should be! 



XII 

i 

THE MUSIC-HALL COMEDIAN 1 

When the day of toil is ended, 
When our labours are suspended, 

And we hunger for agreeable society, 
The relentless voice of Pleasure 
Bids us spend an hour of leisure 

In a Music-Hall or Palace of Variety, 
Where to furnish relaxation 

Ev'ry effort is directed, 
Tho' the claims of ventilation ; 

Have been carefully neglected, \ 



There's an atmosphere oppressive 
(For the smoking is excessive) 

In this Temple of conventional hilarity. 
But the place is scarcely warmer 
Than the average performer 

With his stock-in-trade of commonplace vulgarity. 
There is nothing wise nor witty 

In the energy he squanders 
On some quite unworthy ditty 

Full of dubious ^' dooblontonders/^ 

58 



^USic-^/H^U Corned /A r> 




The Music-Hall Comedian 59 

For the singer labelled ^^ comic " 
Is by nature economic- 

-Al of humours, and avoids originality; 
Like a drowning man he seizes 
Upon prehistoric wheezes, 

Which he honours with a loyal partiality, 
In accordance with the ruling 

Of a senseless superstition 
Which demands a form of fooling 

That is hallowed by tradition. 

Dressed in feminine apparel, 
With a figure like a barrel. 

And a smile of transcendental imbecility, 
All the humours he discloses 
Of such things as purple noses 

Or of matrimonial incompatibility; 
While the band (who would remind him 

That it never would forsake him) 
Keeps a bar or two behind him. 

But can never overtake him. 

Then he gives an imitation 
Of that mild intoxication 

Which is chronic in some sections of society, 
And we learn from his explaining 
How extremely entertaining 

And amusing is persistent insobriety; 
And we realise how funny 

Are the wives who nag and bicker, 
While the husbands spend their money 

Upon alcoholic liquor. 



6o Familiar Faces 

He discusses, slyly winking, 
The delights of overdrinking, 

And describes his nightly orgies, which are numerous; 
How he comes home ^^ full of damp," too, 
How he overturns the lamp, too. 

And does other things if possible more humorous. 
And we listen con amore, 

While our merriment redoubles, 
To the truly tragic story 

Of his dull domestic troubles. 

Next he tells us how ^^ the lodger," 
A cantankerous old codger, 

Asks another person's spouse to come and call for him; 
How he tumbles from a casement 
In an attic to the basement, 

Where the lady very kindly breaks his fall for him; 
And our peals of happy laughter, 

As he lands on her umbrella, 
Grow ungovernable after 

She has fractured her patella. 

'Tis a more polite performance 

Than '' The Macs " and '' The O'Gormans," 

Who are artistes of the '^ knockabout " variety, 
Or those ladies in chemises 
Who undress upon trapezes 

With an almost imperceptible propriety; 
'Tis as worthy of encoring 

As that " Farmyard Imitator," 
And a little bit less boring 

Than the '' Lightning Calculator." 



The Music-Hall Comedian 6i 

It does not evoke our strictures, 

Like those dreadful ^^ Living Pictures " 

Which the prurient write columns to the press about; 
'Tis no clever exhibition 
Like that tedious ^' Thought Transmission " 

Which we all of us disputed more or less about. 
But the balderdash and babble 

Of our too facetious hero, 
Tho' attractive to the rabble, 

Send our spirits down to zero. 

For we weary of his patter, 
Growing moment'rily flatter. 

On such subjects as connubial infelicity, 
And we find ourselves protesting 
Against everlasting jesting 

On the tragedies of conjugal duplicity. 
And we feel desirous very 

Of imposing some restrictions 
On the humour that makes merry 

Over personal afflictions. 

Our disgust we cannot bridle 
When we see some public idol. 

Who is earning a colossal weekly salary. 
Having long ignobly pandered 
To the questionable standard 

Of intelligence that blooms in pit and gallery. 
We are easily contented. 

And our feelings we could stifle. 
If the comic man consented 

Just to raise his tone a trifle. 



62 Familiar Faces 

If he shunned such risky questions 
As red noses, weak digestions, 

Drunkards, lodgers, twins and physical deformities; 
Ceased from casting imputations 
On his wretched '^ wife's relations," 

Or from mentioning his " ma-in-law's "enormities; 
If he didn't sing so badly, 

And if only he were funny, 
We would tolerate him gladly, 

And get value for our money! 



XIII 
THE CONVERSATIONAL REFORMER 

When Theo: Roos: unfurled his bann: 
As Pres: of an immense Repub: 

And sought to manufact: a plan 
For saving people troub :. 

His mode of spelling (termed phonet:) 

Afifec: my brain like an emet:. 

And I evolved a scheme (pro tern) 
To simplify my mother-tongue, 

That so in fame I might resem : 

Upt: Sine:, who wrote '' The Jung:," 

And rouse an interest enorm: 

In conversational reform. 

I grudge the time my fellows waste 
Completing words that are so comm: 

Wherever peop: of cult: and taste 
Habitually predom:. 

'T would surely tend to simpli : life 

Could they be curtailed a trif :. 

63 



64 Familiar Faces 

For is not " Brev: the Soul of Wit "? 

(Inscribe this mott: upon your badge). 
The sense will never sufif: a bit, 

If left to the imag:, 
Since any pers: can see what's meant 
By words so simp : as " husb : " or ^' gent :." 



When at some meal (at dinn: for inst:) 
You hand your unc: an empty plate, 

Or ask your aunt (that charming spinst:) 
To pass you the potat:, 

They have too much sagac:, I trust, 

To give you sug: or pep: or must:. 



If you require a slice of mutt:, 

You'll find the salfsame princ: hold good. 
Nor get, instead of bread and butt:. 

Some tapioca pudd;. 
Nor vainly bid some boon-compan: 
Replen: with Burg: his vacant can. 



At golf, if your oppon: should ask 
Why in a haz : your nib : is sunk. 

And you explain your fav'rite Hask: 
Lies buried in a bunk:. 

He cannot very well misund : 

That you (poor fooz:) have made a blund:. 



The Conversational Reformer 65 

If this is prob: — nay, even cert: — 

My scheme at once becomes attrac : 
And I (pray pard: a litt: impert:) 

A public benefac: 
Who saves his fellow-man and neighb: 
A large amount of needless lab:. 



Gent: Reader, if to me you'll list: 
And not be irritab: or peev:, 

You'll find it of tremend: assist: 
This habit of abbrev:, 

Which grows like some infec. disease, 

Like chron : paral : or German meas :. 



And every living human bipe : 

Will feel his heart grow grate : and warm 
As he becomes the loy: discip: 

Of my partic: reform, 
(Which don't confuse with that, I beg, 
Of Brander Math: or And: Carneg:). 



^^ 'Tis not in mort: to comm: success," 
As Addison remarked; but if my meth: 

Does something to dimin: or less: 
The waste of public breath. 

My country, overcome with grat: 

Should in my hon: erect a stat:. 



66 Familiar Faces 

My bust by Rod: (what matt: the cost?) 
Shall be exhib:, devoid of charge, 

With (in the Public Lib: at Bost:) 
My full-length port: by Sarge:, 

That thous: from Pitts: or Wash: may swarm 

To worsh : the Found : of this Reform. 



Meanwhile I seek with some avid: 
The fav: of your polite consid:. 



XIV 

KING LEOPOLD 

{^^ In dealing with a race that has been composed of 
cannibals for thousands of years, it is necessary to use 
methods that best can shake their idleness and make them 
realise the sanctity of labour/^ — King Leopold of Bel- 
gium on the Congo scandal.) 



People call him ^^ knave " and " ogre " and a lot of kin- 
dred names, 

Or they label him as '^ tyrant" and " oppressor"; 
The majority must wilfully misunderstand his aims 

To regard him in the light of a transgressor. 
For, to tell the honest truth, he's a benevolent old man 

Who attempts to do his ^^ duty to his neighbour " 
By endeavouring to formulate a philanthropic plan 

Which shall demonstrate the ^^ sancity of labour." 



There were natives on the Congo not a score of years ago, 
Whose existence was a constant round of pleasure; 

Whose imperfect education had not ever let them know 
The pernicious immorality of leisure. 

67 



68 Familiar Faces 

They were merry little people, in their simple savage 
way, 
Not a thought to moral obligations giving; 
Quite unconscious of their duties, wholly ignorant were 
they I 

Of the blessedness of working for a living. 



I 



But a fond paternal Government (in Belgium, need I 
add?) 

Heard their story, and, with admirable kindness, 
Deemed it utterly improper, not to say a trifle sad. 

That the heathen should continue in his blindness. 
" Let us civilise the children of this most productive soil," 

Said their agents, who proceeded to invade them; 
" Let us show these foolish savages the dignity of toil — 

If we have to use a hatchet to persuade them! " 



So they taught these happy niggers how unwise it was to 
shirk; 
They implored them not to idle or malinger; 
And they showed them there was nothing that encour- 
aged honest work 
Like the loss of sev'ral toes or half a finger. 
When they fancied that their womenfolk were lonely or 
depress'd, 
They would chain them nice and close to one another, 
And they thoughtfully abducted ev'ry baby at the breast, 
To facilitate the labours of its mother. 



King Leopold 69 

So they made a point of parting ev'ry husband from his 
wife 
And dividing ev'ry maiden from her lover; 
If a workman drooped or sickened they would jab him 
with a knife, 
And then leave him by the roadside to recover. 
If he grumbled or grew restive they would amputate a 
hand, 
Just to show him how unsafe it was to blubber. 
Till with infinite solicitude they made him understand 
The necessity of cultivating '' rubber." 

Thus the merry work progresses, as it must progress for- 
sooth. 

While these pioneers are sharp and firm and wary, — 
And the Congo is reluctantly compelled to own the truth 

Of that motto " Laborare est orare." 
Though the Belgians sometimes wonder, on their tender- 
hearted days, 

(When the little children scream as they abduct them), 
If the natives CAN supply sufficient rubber to erase 

The effect of such endeavours to instruct them 

Tho' within the royal bosom a suspicion there may lurk 
That these practices offend the sister-nations. 

That one cannot safely advocate " the sanctity of work," 
By a policy of theft and mutilations, — 

Yet wherever on the Congo Belgium's banner is unfurled, 
Where the atmosphere is redolent and sunny, 



70 Familiar Faces 

I am sure the Monarch's methods must be giving to the 
world 
Some ideas upon the ^^ sanctity of money! " 

And, if so, I am not boasting when I mention once again 
That the Ruler of the Congo has not surely ruled in vain! 



XV 

^'BART'S" CLUB 

{^' In my view, the most absolutely perfect club of all 
would be a club where absolutely every man could get 
in, it mattered not what he had done in the past!' — Bart 
Kennedy.) 

It fills, indeed, a long felt need, 

This institution, just arisen; 
We notice here that atmosphere 

Of restaurant and prison, 
Of green-room, gambling-hell, saloon, ' 
Which makes it an especial boon. 

That member there with close-cropped hair, 

Who noisily inhales his luncheon, 
His flattened nose has felt the blows 

Of many a p'liceman's truncheon; 
The premier cracksman of the City, 
Is Chairman of our House Committee! 

That bull-necked youth, with fractured tooth. 
Discussing Plato with his neighbour, 

Returned to-day from HoUoway, 
And eighteen months' hard labour; 

He's such a gentleman, I think, 

— Or would be, if he didn't drink. 

71 



72 Familiar Faces 

WeVe thieves and crooks upon our books, 
And all the nimble-fingered gentry; 

The buccaneer is harboured here, 
The ^' shark " has instant entry. 

Blackmail is practised, too, by all, 

Who never heard of a black-ball! 



We gladly take the titled rake. 

The bankrupt and the unfrocked parson. 
All those whose vice is loading dice, 

Or bigamy, or arson. 
Most of our pilgrims have pursued 
The path of penal servitude. 



WeVe anarchists upon our lists. 

While regicides infest the smoke-room; 

(The faux-bonhomme who brings a bomb 
Must leave it in the cloak-room). 

Ink for the forger we provide. 

And strychnine for the suicide. 



Each member's name is known to fame, 

As ^^ green-goods man " or quack-physician; 

We welcome here the pseudo-peer. 
Or bogus politician. 

Within the shelter of our fold 

King Peter greets King Leopold. 



Barfs Club 73 

Our doors are barred to Scotland Yard; 

And no precautions are neglected. 
Come, then, with me, and you shall be 

Immediately elected. 
To what with confidence I dub 
An " absolutely perfect " club! 



XVI 
THE REVIEWER 

Pray observe the stern Reviewer! 

See with what a piercing look 
He impales, as with a skewer, 

This unlucky little book! 
Note his gestures of impatience, 

As he contemplates, perplex'd, 
The amazing illustrations 

Which adorn the text! 



Hear him mutter, as his swivel- 
Eye converges on the verse, 

*^ Any man who writes such drivel 
Must be capable of worse. 

Let it be my painful mission, 
As a literary man. 

To suppress the whole edition, 
If a critic can. 

74 



7^^ f\^yi 



CM/£r 




The Reviewer 75 



^^ More than tedious ev'ry pome is; 
Ev'ry drawing less than true; 
Such a trite and trivial tome is 

Quite unworthy of review. 
On this balderdash no vocal 

Praises can my tongue bestow; 
To the dust-bin of some local 

Pulp-mill let it go! 



'^ There its paper, disinfected 
By some cunning artifice, 
Shall be presently directed 

To diviner ends than this. 
There its pages, expurgated 
By some alchemy abstruse, 
Shall at length be dedicated 

To a nobler use! 



Tho' your labours may be fewer 

If you leave my books alone, 
Grim, implacable Reviewer, 

Do not spurn it with a groan! 
'Tis the chief of all your duties — 

Duties which you strive to shirk- 
To discover hidden beauties 

In an author's work. 



76 Familiar Faces 

Do not stir my soul to sorrow 
By such snubs as one might call 

(Like the daubs of our poor artist) 
" The unkindest cuts of all." 

Be your strictures few or many, 
Honest censure I respect, 

And will meekly swallow any- 

Thing except neglect. 

Jewels, though perchance elusive, 
Crowd this casket of a book ; 

'Tis your privilege exclusive 
For these hidden gems to look. 

When you have adroitly caught them. 
Their delights you can explain 

To a public which has sought them 
For so long in vain. 

Tho' your mouth be far from mealy, 
Tho' your pen be dipped in gall, 

Criticise me frankly, freely, — 
Better thus than not at all! 

Up the ladder I have crept un- 
Til I reached a middle rung. 

Do not let me die '^ unwept, un- 

Honoured and unhung." 



More Misrepresentative Men 




By 

Harry Graham 

("COL. D. 
STREAMER") 

Author of 

"MISREPRESENTA- 
TIVE MEN." 

MISREPRESENTA- 
TIVE WOMEN," 

Etc. 

With pictures by 
Malcolm Strauss 



A NEW collection, descriptive of such celebri- 



i\ 



ties as Andrew Carnegie, Omar Kha)^am, 



J. M. Barrie, Joseph Smith (the Mormon), etc., 
etc. The widespread popularity of Captain 
Graham *s pleasant little satires has assured a 
hearty welcome for this new volume. $1.00. 



By the same Author 

Misrepresentative Men 



6th Edition 

Pictures by F. Strothman. 



$1.00, 



Which include among others, Roosevelt, Adam, 
Bacon, William Tell, Diogenes, Paderewski, 
Sir Thomas Lipton and Ananias. 

DUFFIELD & COMPANY 



36 East 21st Street 



New York 



Misrepresentative Men 
More Misrepresentative Men 

There is good and good-natured fooling in 
verse in Harry Graham's ** Misrepresentative 
Men/* his gallery embracing all ages from 
Adam, Diogenes, Nero, Joan of Arc, Bacon, 
Marat, to Paderewski, Sir Thomas Lipton, and 
Theodore Koosewelt.^*— New York Nation, 

** Harry Graham's book of comic verse is one 
of the most amusing books of the year. Mr. 
Graham is a fluent and ingenious rhymester, 
with an alert mind and well controlled sense of 
humor.*'— iV<fze/ York Times, 

* * Harry Graham is one of the cleverest of 
modern rhymesters. He is already known under 
the pen name, * Col. D. Streamer,* as well as 
under his own, and his * Misrepresentative Men * 
will add materially to his reputation for clever- 
ness . * * —St, Paul Dispatch . 

**Mr. Graham, whose abandoned pen name 
seems to suggest that he has been a member of 
the Coldstream Guards, has never done better 
than in this volume. Mr. Graham's humor is 
not malicious, and the victims who are living to 
see these rhymes will hardly find them offensive. 
They are, indeed, very good fooling.*'— Fb^«^, 
New York, 

* ' * Misrepresentative Men ' is broad satire 
rather than nonsense, and certainly one of the 
most amusing books of its 'kmd,,^*— The Bookman, 

DUFFIELD & COMPANY 

36 East 21*t Street New York 



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